DANCING DEVIL RANGE
by W. C. Tuttle
Hashknife Wasn’t Exactly the Size and Shape to Play Santa
Claus; Still and All, Peace on Earth Was a Long Way from
Dancing Devil Valley That Particular Season
A long, dusty freight train rattled and clanked through the desert
hills, seemingly in no hurry to anywhere. Outside it was almost dark,
and there were no lights inside the caboose, where Hashknife Hartley
sprawled on an uncomfortable seat and gazed wearily through a dusty
window. Across the aisle was Hashknife’s partner, Sleepy Stevens,
stretched out on the seat, his head pillowed on his war-sack.
Hashknife was inches over six feet tall, of slender, steel-muscled
manhood, his sombrero pulled low over his gray eyes. Sleepy Stevens was
less than six feet tall, broad of shoulder and beam, slightly
bow-legged. Sleepy had a grin-wrinkled face, wide mouth and
innocent-looking blue eyes, which seemed amazed at the world.
In garb they were merely a pair of drifting cowboys; well-worn Stetsons,
colorless shirts, stringy vests, little more than a depository for
tobacco and papers, faded overalls and high-heel boots. There was
nothing fancy about these two cowpokes. Their gun-belts were home-made,
form-fitted by wear, and even their Colt guns, tucked into short
holsters, had plain wooden butts, blackened by wear.
A sleepy-eyed brakeman climbed down from the cupola and wiped a grimy
forearm across his dusty eyes and lighted his lantern. He said, “We’re
pullin’ into Northgate, boys.”
Sleepy swung around on the seat, yawned widely and picked up his
war-sack. The train was slowing down, as they came out on the platform.
Each one of them picked up a heavy saddle and stepped down. There were
few lights in Northgate, the railroad point for all of the Dancing Devil
range.
There were huge loading corrals along the tracks, indicating that much
livestock was shipped from Northgate. The train stopped, with the
caboose close to the depot, and the two men swung down. The conductor
crossed in front of them, going into the depot, where a kerosene lamp
yellow-lighted the windows. A man came from the near corner of the
depot, walking swiftly toward the rear platform of the caboose.
He had just reached the steps and was about to enter the caboose, when a
shotgun blasted from down behind the loading platform. The man twisted
around, tried to grasp the doorway, but missed, and went backwards off
the platform, falling in the middle of the tracks behind the caboose.
Hashknife and Sleepy dropped their impedimenta and ran over to the
caboose. There was no sign of the shooter. The conductor, depot-agent
and a brakeman came running. They picked the man up and placed him on
the platform while Hashknife told them where the shot came from. There
was no one in sight. The victim had stopped a dozen buckshot, and was
beyond any medical assistance.
There was no law officer in Northgate, the sheriffs office being at
Tomahawk Flats, thirty miles south, center of the Dancing Devil range.
Someone summoned a doctor, and other curious people arrived. A cowboy
said, “I know who he is--he’s Oren Blakely. I think he worked for the
Circle H, down at Tomahawk Flats.”
Hashknife and Sleepy secured a room at a little hotel, and, after
considerable haggling, bought two horses from the man who owned the
livery-stable and feed corral. They told him they were leaving for
Tomahawk Flats in the morning. He said, “if yo’re lookin’ for work down
there--”
“What about it?” asked Hashknife quickly.
“I just meant that they prob’ly ain’t lookin’ for cowpokes. Yuh see, the
bank went busted and that busted most of the cowmen, makin’ things kinda
bad down there. If a feller was lookin’ for work-- But that’s yore
business.”
“Much obliged,” said Hashknife, but he didn’t say whether it was for the
advice or the information.
* * * * *
Over at the hotel they heard a man say that they had sent for the
sheriff and the coroner. Another man said, “It ain’t goin’ to be a very
merry Christmas down there this year.”
In their little room, Hashknife sprawled on the bed, smoking a
cigarette, while Sleepy looked moodily from a dusty window. Sleepy said,
“I just hope we ain’t playin’ Sandy Claws for Bob Marsh.”
Hashknife laughed shortly. “Where’d yuh get that idea?”
Sleepy sat down and began manufacturing a cigarette.
“Distrust of Bob Marsh,” he replied. “Bob sets there at his desk, his
big, brown eyes as full of honesty as a coyote pup is full of fleas, and
explains that all on earth he wants us to do is come down here, get the
best possible price on three, four cattle spreads, and let him know.”
“Well?” suggested Hashknife curiously.
“That’s all we’ve got to do,” sighed Sleepy. “No rustlers, no
horse-thieves--just a couple real estate men on horseback.”
“Sounds all right to me,” said Hashknife. “We get paid so much for the
job, and if the deals go through we get more money. It’s an honest job,
Sleepy. Bob Marsh, as secretary of the Cattlemen’s Association, can’t
afford to be mixed up in a crooked deal.”
“Yeah, I know but--well, a man was murdered tonight.”
“Men,” remarked Hashknife quietly, “are murdered every day.”
“Yeah, I know, but--you heard that man at the livery-stable, sayin’ that
everybody in the Dancin’ Devil country are broke. The bank went
busted--”
“Are you lookin’ for boogers, Sleepy?”
“No, I’m tryin’ to figure out why Bob Marsh got us down here. If he
can’t get us into trouble one way, he’ll--well, all right.”
“I’ve just thought of somethin’ else,” said Hashknife soberly. Sleepy
looked sharply at him and said, “Yeah? What?”
“It ain’t long until Christmas, pardner.”
“I heard that mentioned tonight, High Pockets. Christmas! Heat and dust.
Yuh know, I’d like to spend a Christmas in the snow agin, Hashknife. It
ain’t Christmas down here, except on the calendar. We had real
Christmases in Idaho.”
“We had ’em in Montana, too,” said Hashknife. “My old man, bein’ a range
preacher, was strong for things like that. I ’member the church trees
decorated with popcorn in strings, popcorn balls, and little, red sacks
of mosquito-nettin’, full of hard candy, with a tired-lookin’ orange in
the bottom. They’d read telegrams from Santa Claus, showin’ that he was
comin’--and then he’d come, all in a bear-skin coat, sleigh-bells,
whiskers--”
“Bringin’ a pair of skates for little Hashknife,” suggested Sleepy.
“They called me Henry,” smiled Hashknife, “but I never got any skates. A
range preacher didn’t make money enough--and we had a whopper of a
family. We was poor folks, Sleepy.”
“Poor folks in Tomahawk Flats, too, they say. Be a bad Christmas down
there--and we’re goin’ down to try and buy ’em out as cheap as
possible.”
Hashknife nodded slowly. “That’s life, Sleepy.”
“It’s a tough life for busted folks. Yuh know,” Sleepy began rolling a
cigarette, “I’ll bet yuh a dollar agin a doughnut that we don’t buy any
spreads.”
“Anythin’ to base that bet on?”
“Bob Marsh. Listen, tall-feller; Bob Marsh used that as an excuse, or my
original name ain’t Stevens. He wanted us to come here and let Nature
take her course. Yuh can’t fool me, feller; I’m wise to Bob Marsh. No, I
don’t say that Bob’s crooked, but he’s allus been a connivin’ critter.”
“He told the idea as straight as a string, Sleepy.”
“And here we are,” added Sleepy. “We get off the train--and what
happens? A man is blasted down with a load of buckshot, that’s what
happened. He poked cows for one of them poverty-stricken outfits at
Tomahawk Flats.”
Hashknife grinned. “A coincidence, Sleepy. Prob’ly a grudge between two
men--nothin’ to do with us.”
“No? Nothin’ t’ do with us, sez he. Huh! And yore long nose has been
wigglin’ and sniffin’, like the nose of a bloodhound, ever since that
poor devil done a hooligan off the end of that caboose. Nothin’ to do
with us, eh? Let’s go to bed, before yuh get me all riled up.”
Hashknife laughed. It was like Sleepy to complain of things that might
happen. They had been together a long time, these two drifting cowboys,
always trying to find out what was going on over the next hill, only
working long enough to suffice for their few wants, and then going on,
always looking, helping some under-dog, asking nothing for themselves.
* * * * *
Hashknife, with his ability to solve range mysteries, could have sold
his services to the law, and made money. But neither law nor money meant
anything to them. They had seen the law miscarry too often. They loved
justice--which is not necessarily law. At rare times they worked for the
Cattlemen’s Association, asking only that they be given a free hand and
not be hampered by rules. But neither of them enjoyed nor appreciated
the work. Bob Marsh would have almost given his right hand to have them
work for his organization. In fact, he used every sort of ruse to get
them on certain jobs, knowing that Hashknife, confronted by a problem,
would never give up, until it was solved. That was why Sleepy mistrusted
Bob Marsh’s casual suggestion that they make some money for themselves
by asking prices on some cattle ranches.
They found the depot-agent in the little restaurant next morning, eating
breakfast with Nick McGarvin, the sheriff, and his deputy, Frenchy
Arnett. The agent recognized them, and told the sheriff that these were
the two men who had just arrived on the freight train, and were present
when Oren Blakely was shot. Hashknife introduced himself and Sleepy, and
sat down at their table. He was unable to tell them any more than they
already knew about the shooting.
Nick McGarvin was a big, two-fisted sort of person, and Hashknife
mentally listed him as a much better man with his fists or gun than with
his brains. Frenchy Arnett was small, dark, hatchet-faced, with a sour
disposition and need of sleep. The agent went back to the depot, and the
sheriff remarked:
“You two came in on the freight, packin’ saddles, bought two broncs from
the feed-corral, and said you was headin’ for Tomahawk Flats tomorrow
morning--that bein’ today.”
“The corral man told yuh,” said Hashknife. “Did he also tell yuh what
else we said?”
“No, he didn’t. What else did yuh say?”
“I don’t remember,” replied Hashknife. “It was prob’ly just as important
as what he told yuh.”
The sheriff nodded, but Frenchy grinned and looked sideways at the
sheriff. Frenchy said, “It’s allus best to write it out. Things like
that require study.”
“What are you talkin’ about?” asked the sheriff.
“Nothin’, Nick.”
“Tells us some more about us,” suggested Sleepy soberly. “It’s shore
interestin’.”
“We don’t know any more,” replied the sheriff. “It’s my duty to know
things.”
“Yuh mean--findin’ out about everybody’s deep, dark past?” asked Sleepy.
“Askin’,” corrected Frenchy. “Nick’s good at it.”
“Any idea who shot the man, Sheriff?” asked Hashknife.
“No. He’s worked for the Circle H for over a year, and I ain’t never
knowed him to have trouble with anybody. ’Course, I’ll have to check up
with Sam Hack--he owns the Circle H. Sam might know who Oren was feudin’
with--I dunno.”
They finished breakfast, and Hashknife and Sleepy decided to ride to
Tomahawk Flats with the two officers, who had, so far, failed to find
out why Hashknife and Sleepy were going there. As they were saddling at
the livery-stable, a rider, on a very tired horse, swung off the street
and into the stable:
The sheriff said, “Hello, Jim.”
Jim Bailey swung off his saddle and came over close to the sheriff. He
said, “Nick, I got here as quick as I could. Somebody shot and killed
Chiquita Morales last night!”
The big sheriff stared at Jim Bailey, while Frenchy Arnett said, “Aw,
Gawd, they didn’t do that, Jim!”
Bailey nodded grimly. “She musta been in town, Frenchy--in a buggy. They
tied the horse about a mile out of town and shot her.”
Hashknife did not ask any questions as the sheriff said wearily, “We’re
headin’ home right now, Jim. Doc Miles left about three o’clock with the
body of Oren Blakely.”
“It’s shore gettin’ to be a awful tough country,” sighed Jim Bailey.
“She was settin’ there in the buggy--”
“Shut up!” snapped Frenchy sharply. He dropped his reins and walked over
to the big, sliding doors, where he stood, staring out at the street.
Jim Bailey shook his head.
“Chiquita was Frenchy’s sweetheart,” whispered the sheriff.
“That’s what _he_ thought--mebbe,” said Bailey.
Bailey and Frenchy rode ahead, leaving the sheriff to ride with
Hashknife and Sleepy.
“We heard that the bank went busted in Tomahawk Flats,” remarked
Hashknife.
“Robbed,” corrected the sheriff. “Three men.”
“Cleaned it out, eh?”
“Nothin’ left--and it busted a lot of folks. Yuh see, Thomas Colton
owned the bank--the Cattleman’s Independent Bank. Old Ed Weed was the
cashier. It was a good bank, too, with plenty cash. Tom Colton is a fine
feller--everybody liked him. He played square with everybody--never
hounded ’em on mortgages and all that.
“Well, a short time ago, three men got into Ed Weed’s house, made him
give ’em the combination of the safe, took his keys, tied Old Ed up so
tight that he ain’t rid of the kinks yet, and took their sweet time in
bustin’ the bank. They emptied the vault. As far as we can find out,
there wasn’t a thin dime left. It broke a lot of folks, I’ll tell yuh
that. I lost seven hundred dollars myself.”
“Where,” asked Hashknife, “does this Chiquita Morales figure in the
deal, Sheriff?”
“She don’t. Her father, Pete Morales, owns a little rancho. Chiquita is
about eighteen. I reckon, and as pretty as a bug’s ear. I’m past forty
and I’m married, but every time she looked at me and grinned--I lost at
least fifteen years of age. They’re poor, them Morales are. Poor old
Pete, this’ll hit him hard.”
“No idea who busted the bank, eh?” queried Sleepy.
The sheriff sat disgustedly. “We’ve got a prisoner,” he said.
“Oh, yuh caught one of ’em, eh?” remarked Hashknife.
“Quien sabe? Yuh see, it’s thisaway. Andy Davidson--we call him Uncle
Andy, and his wife, Aunt Judy--the finest folks yuh ever knowed--have a
son, Johnny. Johnny’s fine. Hell, yuh can’t have a pa and ma like them,
and not be fine. Johnny’s engaged to marry Nell Frawley on Christmas
Eve. Well, Johnny’s in jail.”
“It don’t seem to work out,” said Hashknife.
* * * * *
“That’s right--but there he is. Yuh see, Johnny wears a ring. That is,
he did. Navajo, I reckon. Big ring, silver and with a turquoise cross.
Anybody’d know that ring. Tom Weed says that one of the men who robbed
the bank wore that ring. Johnny didn’t have it on his finger when we
arrested him, and he can’t tell us where it is. He just sets there in
his cell, staring at the bars. It’s a tough situation, Hartley.”
“Well, can’t he prove where he was that night?” asked Sleepy.
“If he can--he won’t. Yuh can’t get a word out of him.”
“What does his girl think of the deal?” asked Sleepy.
“Nell Frawley. Lord, I dunno what she thinks. Nell is one of the finest
yuh ever seen, and yuh can’t beat her folks. They got hit awful hard in
that bank bust, but I don’t reckon they got hit as hard as Uncle Andy
Davidson. He’s flat--but he ain’t kickin’. If Johnny was out of
jail--well, I don’t think Uncle Andy is givin’ a thought to losin’ the
money.”
“I can imagine,” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “A fine Christmas for
folks like that.”
“That’s right, Hartley--I’d plumb forgot about Christmas. Peace on
earth--don’t fit so good in Dancin’ Devil Valley this season.”
After a full minute of silent riding the sheriff commented, “I plumb
forgot to ask you fellers how come yo’re headin’ for Dancin’ Devil
Valley?”
Hashknife studied the bobbing ears of his horse for several moments, his
eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Then he looked at the sheriff and said,
“Sheriff you know what a wild goose is, don’t yuh?”
“Of course, I do.”
“We’re chasin’ one,” said Hashknife.
The sheriff scratched his stubbled chin, looked sideways at Hashknife,
but rode on, thinking it over. These two rather puzzled the law officer.
They looked like a pair of drifting cowpokes, but why would a drifting
cowpoke be looking for wild geese in the Dancing Devil country, he
wondered. Funny thing, too--when that Hartley person looked at you and
said something--you believed him. Even such a fantastic thing as chasing
a wild goose.
It was afternoon, when they arrived in Tomahawk Flats, and the sheriff
and coroner left immediately to get the body of the murdered Mexican
girl. Men had guarded it since the discovery. Hashknife and Sleepy
registered at the hotel, where folks talked about the crime wave.
The murder of Oren Blakely was secondary in importance. A man might get
killed at any time, but for somebody to deliberately murder a girl--that
needed attention.
“I seen Pete Morales and his old woman a while ago,” one man said.
“Gawd, you’d think the roof fell on both of ’em.”
“It shore did,” nodded a grizzled cowman. “I lost one--once--but she
wasn’t shot to death. That’s worse--if it can be.”
“Yeah, I knew. Mrs. Morales just sat there, countin’ her beads, movin’
her lips, never looked up at all. She wasn’t cryin’--jist countin’ ’em,
I reckon.”
“I kinda figured that her and Frenchy would get hitched,” said another
of the men. “They used to go down into Mexico to dances, and all that.
Frenchy can talk Mexican pretty good.”
Hashknife and Sleepy went up to their room to leave their war-bags.
Sleepy flung his bag into a corner and stood there, his hands on his
hips, looking at Hashknife, who sat down to roll a cigarette.
“Go ahead, pardner--say it,” he remarked.
“Yeah! Just a couple real-estate men on horseback!” snorted Sleepy.
“Bob Marsh didn’t know things like this would happen, Sleepy; he’s no
fortune teller. It just happened, that’s all.”
“Yea-a-ah? All right--be stubborn. We’re here, ain’t we? Pitch-forked
into it by Bob Marsh. He knowed the bank was busted. Mebbe he knew
Johnny Davidson was in jail. We came straight from his dog-gone office.
Real-estate, yore eye!”
Hashknife lighted his cigarette and inhaled deeply.
“It’s a terrible thing--murderin’ a girl, Sleepy.”
“That’s right--terrible! Terrible thing to murder a man, too.”
“Even if Bob Marsh knew--”
“Losin’ faith in him, eh? That’s fine. Now we can start even.”
“And there’s a job to be done, Sleepy,” after a long pause, “we’ve got a
good alibi for bein’ down here--real-estate men on horseback.”
They ate supper in a little Mexican restaurant, where they found Frenchy
Arnett, more than half-drunk, imbibing tequila with his meal. He didn’t
speak to them--merely looked at them through bloodshot eyes, and went on
drinking. Frenchy was gone, when they paid for their meal.
“Frenchy fill pretty bad--I theenk so,” said the Mexican proprietor.
“Tequila won’t help him much,” remarked Sleepy.
“Notheeng help heem much, _amigo_. Too bad.”
* * * * *
The murder of Chiquita Morales had sobered Tomahawk Flats. Even in the
big Pasatiempo Saloon men talked in subdued tones, placed chips
carefully into the jack-pots. The roulette-layout was not even
uncovered. A man said, “I’d shore like to pull the rope on that dirty
murderer.”
Another man laughed shortly and said, “Fine chance. The best our sheriff
can do is put Johnny Davidson in jail. Wouldn’t have got him, if the
blamed fool hadn’t worn that ring.”
“One cinch,” said a gambler, “they can’t put that onto Johnny; he was
locked up tight. But I can’t figure out why anybody’d shoot the girl. As
far as that goes, why was Oren Blakely shot?”
“Oren was a good _hombre_,” remarked another. “I talked with Sam Hack a
while ago, and he said that all he knew was that Oren left the ranch,
headin’ for here. Why he went to Northgate, nobody seems to know.”
“Somebody did,” said the gambler, “and that somebody had a shotgun and a
load of buckshot. Well, I dunno--it beats me.”
“Beats the sheriff, too,” said another. “You watch--he’ll never get
either of the killers.”
Hashknife and Sleepy slept late next morning, ate breakfast in the hotel
dining-room, and when they came back to the lobby they saw an elderly
couple, talking with the hotel-keeper. The man was small, thin,
bow-legged, smooth-shaved, almost bird-like in his movements. The woman
was gray-haired, tall, slender, sad-looking. The hotel-keeper saw
Hashknife and Sleepy come from the dining-room doorway, and motioned to
the man, who got up very quickly from his chair and came over to
Hashknife.
“Your name is Hartley?” he asked quietly.
“That’s right,” smiled Hashknife.
“I’m Andy Davidson--AD spread. Mind talkin’ to me for a few minutes?”
“I’d like to, Mr. Davidson.”
“Everybody calls me Uncle Andy.”
“My friends call me Hashknife, Uncle Andy.”
“Yeah, that’s what--that’s the name in the letter I got a few minutes
ago. I’ll show it to yuh.”
Hashknife read the short letter from Bob Marsh, which said:
I am in receipt of your telegram a few minutes ago, and in
reply I can say that two men, Hashknife Hartley and Sleepy
Stevens are either now in your town, or soon will be. I have
perfect confidence in them and their ability. Please keep
this confidential. For that reason I am writing you, rather
than to use a telegram.
There was a postscript, which said, “Give my regards to Sleepy.”
Hashknife smiled slowly, folded the letter and gave it back to Uncle
Andy, who was looking closely at him. Hashknife motioned to Sleepy, who
came over.
“Uncle Andy,” said Hashknife, “I want you to meet Sleepy Stevens.
Sleepy, this is Uncle Andy Davidson. He just got a letter from Bob
Marsh.”
“Bob’s quite a hand to write letters,” remarked Sleepy. “Did he send me
his regards?”
“By doggies!” exclaimed Uncle Andy. “He did just that!”
“He always does,” said Sleepy. “Anyway, I’m glad to meet yuh, Uncle
Andy.”
They shook hands, and Uncle Andy introduced them to Aunt Judy Davidson,
who also shook hands with them soberly.
“We’re in a peck of trouble, boys,” said Uncle Andy.
“We heard about it,” said Hashknife quietly. “Trouble seems plentiful
around here. Yuh see, we just got off the train at Northgate when Oren
Blakely was shot.”
“Oren was a nice boy,” offered Aunt Judy. “I’m sorry about him. Isn’t it
terrible about Chiquita Morales? I liked her.”
“Is there anybody you dislike?” asked Hashknife smiling. Aunt Judy
thought carefully, finally shaking her head. “I just can’t remember
any,” she said seriously.
They sat down and Uncle Andy said, “How much of the story have you
heard, Hashknife?”
“The sheriff told us most of it, ridin’ down here.”
“Nick has been awful nice to us,” said Aunt Judy. “It isn’t his
fault--he had to do his duty.”
“She excuses everybody,” said Uncle Andy.
“You, too?” queried Sleepy.
“Not always, Sleepy. I’m about the only person she ever blames.”
“Tell me about this ring--the evidence against yore son,” said
Hashknife.
“Well,” replied Uncle Andy, “Johnny bought it from a feller in
Northgate. It’s a big, silver contraption, and the settin’ is a
turquoise, cut in the shape of a cross. Anybody’d remember it, if they
seen it once. Awful gaudy, I thought.”
“Beautiful,” added Aunt Judy. “It was a little small for Johnny, and he
had to wear it on his little finger. Very heavy.”
“Ed Weed recognized it,” said Uncle Andy sadly. “He’d seen it lots of
times. But Johnny, darn his soul, won’t tell what he done with it. Just
sets there and shakes his head. Yuh see,” Uncle Andy cleared his throat
harshly, “yuh see, Johnny and Nell Frawley was due to get married
Christmas Eve.”
“Loveliest girl I ever knew,” said Aunt Judy wearily.
“I’m wonderin’ if Johnny would talk with me,” said Hashknife.
Uncle Andy shook his head. “I don’t believe he would. Won’t talk to
anybody, not even a lawyer. Stubborn’s a bull calf.”
“He might,” said Aunt Judy hopefully, but added, “He ort to. Nobody can
help him, if he won’t talk.”
“Let’s try it,” suggested Hashknife. “He can’t no more than refuse.”
“All right,” replied Uncle Andy. “We’ll try, but don’t say I didn’t warn
yuh, Hashknife.”
* * * * *
They found Nick McGarvin in the office. He didn’t think that Johnny
would talk, especially to strangers, but was willing for them to try.
Johnny Davidson was a good-looking young cowboy, but he had stubborn
eyes and a stubborn chin. Uncle Andy introduced Hashknife and Sleepy to
him, but he didn’t seem interested.
“These here men want to help yuh, Johnny,” explained Uncle Andy. “But
before they can help yuh, they’ve got to hear yore story.”
“I have no story,” declared Johnny stonily. “Nothin’ to tell.”
Hashknife moved in close to the bars, and Johnny looked at him, rather
defiantly, at first. Their eyes met for several moments, and Johnny
turned away, looking at his mother.
“Johnny, you ought to talk to him,” she said quietly.
Johnny looked at Hashknife again, and a weak smile twisted his lips for
a moment. Then he said, “All right, what do I talk about?”
“That ring, Johnny,” replied Hashknife. “We’ve got to know what yuh done
with it.”
Johnny shook his head. “It won’t do a bit of good,” he said. “It can’t
do any good now--it’s too damned late, Hartley.”
“Why is it too late?” asked Hashknife.
“Because Chiquita Morales is dead. Oren Blakely is dead, too.”
Uncle Andy said, “What did Chiquita--”
“Wait!” interrupted Hashknife. “Johnny can tell us--in his own way. Go
ahead, Johnny.”
Johnny gnawed at his lower lip for several moments, his eyes bleak.
Hashknife noticed that his hands were clenched behind him. Finally he
said:
“I traded that ring, to Chiquita Morales for a pinto horse. She wanted
the ring--I wanted that _pintado_. I--I was goin’ to tell Nell about it.
I dunno--mebbe Nell was a little jealous of Chiquita. She didn’t mean
anythin’ to me, Chiquita didn’t. There wasn’t any bill-of-sale--nothin’
to prove I traded. I was goin’ to get the pinto--and that’s all there
was to it.
“She wanted the ring to wear to a dance--so I let her have it. I was
down at Agua Verde that night, but I left there about seven o’clock. On
the way back, at a little rancho, there was a lot of music, so I stopped
to see what was goin’ on. It was a dance--a pretty wild dance, too.
Chiquita was there with Oren Blakely. Everybody was drunk, except
Chiquita, and there had been several fist-fights. Oren was drunk, too.
Chiquita wanted to go home--to get away from the place. Well, at least,
I’m a gentleman--I hope. We got Oren on a horse, and all three of us
came back across the line. Oren wasn’t too drunk then; so we put him on
the road to the Circle H, and I took Chiquita home.”
“And you was afraid that Nell would find it out?” asked Uncle Andy.
“Yeah, I was,” admitted Johnny. “Maybe I had no business doin’
it--takin’ her home, and all that--but I did.”
“Was she wearin’ the ring at the dance?” asked Hashknife.
“No, she wasn’t,” replied Johnny. “I asked her where it was, and she
told me she left it at home, because it was too big, and she was afraid
she’d lose it.”
“I’ll explain it to Nell,” offered Aunt Judy.
“Thanks, Ma--but I’d rather tell her. I didn’t take Chiquita to the
dance--didn’t even know she was there--and when she explained that she
was scared to stay there--what could I do?”
“Couldn’t anybody at that rancho testify that you were there, instead of
robbin’ a bank?” asked Uncle Andy.
“I doubt it, ’cause I didn’t mix in the dance. And, anyway,” said
Johnny, “nobody knows what time of night the bank was robbed. Ed Weed
didn’t know. They woke him up, but he never seen a clock.”
“I heard that Chiquita was to marry Frenchy Arnett,” said Hashknife.
“_Quien sabe?_” Johnny smiled sourly. “Chiquita liked to have fun. She
asked me to not tell Frenchy. I wouldn’t, anyway. It wasn’t my
business.”
“Johnny,” said Hashknife, “do you know of anybody who hated Oren Barkley
enough to shoot him? Maybe somebody who knew he took Chiquita to a
dance.”
Johnny shook his head. “No, I don’t, Hartley. Frenchy was supposed to be
keepin’ steady company with Chiquita. Frenchy was either in Northgate,
or on his way up there, when she was killed. Oren wasn’t quarrelsome. In
fact, that night was the first time I had ever seen him drunk. Oh, he
took a drink now and then, I suppose, but not enough to affect him.”
“Well, much obliged, Johnny,” said Hashknife, shaking hands through the
bars.
“Yo’re welcome, Hartley. Glad to have met yuh--and you, too, Stevens.”
He kissed his mother between the bars, and they went out. Aunt Judy took
hold of Hashknife’s shoulders and turned him around on the sidewalk,
looking straight into his eyes.
“I just wanted to find out why Johnny talked to you,” she said as he
smiled slowly at her.
“Don’t be silly, Ma,” grinned Uncle Andy.
“I’m not silly,” she said quietly, and turned away. Hashknife patted her
on the shoulder.
“I dunno how it was done--but it was,” Uncle Andy said. “Hashknife, we
want you and Sleepy to make the ranch yore home. We’ve got room out
there, and we’d sure admire havin’ yuh stay there.”
“Later--maybe,” said Hashknife. “Thank yuh both a lot.”
“Make it when yuh can; we’ll be lookin’ for yuh.”
* * * * *
Nick McGarvin, the sheriff, was a little amazed over the willingness of
Johnny Davidson to talk to a stranger. And he was also a bit curious as
to just why Andy Davidson had brought these two strangers to the jail
for the conference. He asked Johnny, who thought it over for several
moments.
“I don’t know, Nick,” he said. “Mother and Dad brought ’em in here, and
Hartley, the tall one asked me questions.”
“Which you answered,” said the sheriff dryly.
“That’s right, I did--but don’t ask me why, Nick. It is kinda funny.
Somethin’ about him--I dunno what.”
Pete Morales and his wife came to town, and the sheriff asked Pete if he
knew anything about Chiquita trading a pinto horse to Johnny Davidson
for a turquoise ring.
Pete shook his head sadly. “_Mi amigo_,” he said wearily, “I know
notheeng, excep’s Chiquita ees died. I see no reeng.”
“Did you know that Chiquita went to the dance in Mexico with Oren
Blakely?”
Again the little Mexican shook his head. “No,” he said huskily. “I tell
her, ‘Kip to hell from those dance at Miguel’s rancho. Bad pippil down
there.’ But I theenk she go anyway.”
Nick McGarvin went back to his office. Frenchy hadn’t showed up yet. The
death of Chiquita Morales was a terrible blow to the little deputy--and
he was drinking too much.
Sam Hack and his only remaining cowboy, Gus Staley, came over to the
sheriff’s office. Hack was a tall, gaunt man, with deep-set eyes, long
arms and huge, bony hands. Hack was really a newcomer to the Dancing
Devil range, having bought the NK spread from the bank, which had it on
a foreclosure, and registered his own brand. Oren Blakely had been one
of his two men. Gus Staley was rather a nondescript cowpoke, who liked
liquor and cards.
Hack wanted action. He said, “Nick, you’ve got to do somethin’ about the
murder of Oren. Yuh can’t let things like that go--”
“Suggest somethin’,” replied the harassed sheriff. “It’s easy to talk
about, Sam. Nobody knows why Oren headed for Northgate, nobody knows who
wanted to shoot him. Everyone seemed to like him. If you know anythin’
else, let me know.”
“Well,” replied Hack soberly, “I wish I could, Nick. Has Johnny Davidson
talked yet?”
“Johnny talked this mornin’, Sam. He wouldn’t talk to me, and he
wouldn’t talk to his ma and pa--but he talked to a stranger.”
“Meanin’ what?” asked Hack flatly.
The sheriff shook his head. “I dunno, Sam--I can’t figure it.”
And then the sheriff told them what Johnny told Hashknife.
Sam Hack and Gus Staley listened closely while the sheriff related
Johnny’s story, and the sheriff finished with:
“I asked Johnny why he told all this to Hartley, when he wouldn’t talk
with anybody else, and he said he didn’t know.”
“Kinda funny,” remarked Hack. He turned to Staley, “Gus, did you know
that Oren took Chiquita to that dance?”
Staley shook his head. “Oren didn’t talk much,” he replied. “He was
drunk when he got back to the ranch that night, but he didn’t say where
he’d been, I figured he got drunk here.”
“Gus,” said the sheriff, “you’ve been with Oren a long time. If I
remember right, you came here with him. Do you know anybody who hated
him enough to shoot him?”
“Hell, no!” snorted Gus Staley.
“Well, there yuh are,” said the sheriff, shrugging helplessly. “Gus has
been bunkin’ the man all this time, and even _he_ don’t know who’d shoot
him.”
“Who is Hartley and Stevens?” asked Hack.
The sheriff smiled. “I rode all the way down here from Northgate with
them two,” he said, “and all I know is that they’ve each got two legs
and two arms. Yuh might ask Andy Davidson--he seemed to know ’em.”
“Just a couple driftin’ cowpokes, eh?”
“You name ’em,” replied the sheriff. “They came in on the freight-train,
got off at Northgate, just before Oren climbed on and got shot. They had
their saddles along with ’em, and I know they bought two horses at the
feed corral.”
“Well,” yawned Hack, “we’ve got to be driftin’, Nick. When is the
inquest?”
“Tomorrow mornin’, Doc Talbert told me. You’ll be here?”
“Yeah. After all, Oren was one of my boys.”
* * * * *
Hashknife and Sleepy sprawled on chairs under the porch of the hotel.
Hashknife, as relaxed as a cat, smoked thoughtfully, paying little
attention to activity on the street.
“How much of Johnny Davidson’s story do yuh reckon a jury would
believe?” inquired Sleepy.
“Very little, Sleepy.”
“Do you believe him?”
“Certainly, I believe him. With all the lies possible, he told a story
that can’t possibly help him. The girl is dead--and he didn’t have to
tell the truth about the ring. The kid’s honest.”
“Yo’re like Aunt Judy--everybody is all right.”
Sam Hack and Gus Staley came past the porch and went on up the street.
Both of them looked curiously at Hashknife and Sleepy. Frank Olds, the
hotel-keeper, standing in the doorway of the hotel, waved a greeting to
them, and he said to the two cowboys:
“That’s the feller Oren Blakely worked for--Sam Hack. He’s the tall one;
the other is Gus Staley.”
“Is Hack an old-timer down here?” asked Hashknife.
“No, he came here a little over a year ago and bought out the NK. Bought
it from the bank, I reckon--they held a big mortgage, and Kinney, the
owner, couldn’t make the grade.”
“You knew Blakely?” asked Sleepy.
“Yeah. Nice boy, too. I know most everybody. Growed up here.”
“I hear,” remarked Hashknife lazily, “that the bank bust hurt folks
pretty hard around here.”
“Busted some of ’em. Yuh take Andy Davidson and Ed Frawley, they got hit
awful hard. Had most all their money in the bank, I’ve been told.
Davidson just sold a train-load of cows, and they tell me he lost every
cent in the bank. Frawley got hit about as hard. They ain’t
kickin’--’cause they ain’t that kind.”
“What do yuh think of Johnny Davidson’s chances?” asked Sleepy.
“Well, I’ll tell yuh; with that ring as evidence, and with a Dancin’
Devil jury, he’s got about as much chance as a celluloid cat has in
hell. The jury will believe Ed Weed. I hate to see it happen to the
Davidson family, but Johnny is stuck.”
“What happened to the banker?” asked Sleepy.
“Oh, he’s still livin’ here. Tom Colton’s his name. Got sort of a
no-good son, named Harry. He tried to make a banker out of him, but it
didn’t work. Make a better banker for a faro game, I reckon. Drinks like
a fish, Harry does.”
After all this information Frank Olds went back to his hotel work, and
Hashknife and Sleepy walked over to the livery-stable. The stableman was
also a loquacious soul. He was standing in the rear doorway of the
stable, staring out at a rather dilapidated top-buggy. He said,
complainingly, “I wish they’d take that damn thing away from here.”
“Why?” asked Sleepy.
“That’s the buggy Chiquita Morales was killed in. They brung it here.
Said that it was mebbe evidence. Huh! Blood all over it, too. I sleep in
the tack-room--and I dream about that blasted, old buggy. Chiquita was
awful pretty. I dunno, I reckon it’ll stay there, until the sheriff
takes it away.”
Hashknife walked out and looked it over. Not much of a buggy, the worn
cushion spattered with gore, dried black now, a broken buggy-whip in the
old socket, ready to fall off the dash. Sleepy and the stableman had
turned to talk with someone, when Hashknife pulled the seat-cushion
loose from the back. Something rattled loosely, and Hashknife readied in
and picked it up. One swift glance and he put the object in his pocket,
shoved the cushion into place and walked back to the doorway.
A young man was talking with the stableman, paying him some money. He
was wearing “store-clothes,” except for his high-heel boots, and seemed
just a trifle inebriated. A good-looking young man, too, except for the
deep lines of dissipation in his face. After he went out, the stableman
said:
“That’s Harry Colton, the busted banker’s son. He keeps his horse here
in the stable, and pays his bills regular. I hate to see a young man
drinkin’ thataway. His old man tried to keep him straight, but I don’t
reckon it was any use. Too much money and nothin’ else to do.”
“Mebbe,” suggested Sleepy, “he won’t have too much money now.”
“Did yuh hear what he said?” asked the stableman.
Sleepy shook his head.
“He said he’d prob’ly have to sell his horse. Can’t afford to pay feed
bills much longer.”
“He might cut down on his whiskey bills,” suggested Hashknife.
“You don’t know Harry,” grinned the stableman.
* * * * *
They walked back to the hotel and went up to their room, where Hashknife
took the object from his pocket and placed it on the table. It was a
huge, Mexican silver ring, with a turquoise cross. Sleepy stared at it,
picked it up gingerly and examined it. He put it back on the table and
sat down by the window.
“It was under that seat cushion,” said Hashknife.
“Maybe,” suggested Sleepy, “Chiquita thought she was bein’ held up, and
hid it under the cushion.”
“It kinda figures out like this,” said Hashknife. “Chiquita made the
trade with Johnny. She wasn’t in love with Johnny, but it kinda seems
that she--well, she wasn’t a one-man woman. Before the robbery, she let
somebody have that ring. Maybe she got it back. Maybe she was scared to
keep it. Maybe she hid it under the cushion. Maybe--”
“After all that,” interrupted Sleepy, “what do yuh think actually
happened?”
“I don’t know,” grinned Hashknife, and pocketed the ring.
“This can’t help Johnny none,” said Sleepy.
“I don’t reckon it can help anybody,” smiled Hashknife, “but it’s a
mighty pretty ring.”
They went back to the hotel lobby, where they were accosted by an
elderly, well-dressed man. He said, “You are Mr. Hartley?”
“That’s my name,” nodded Hashknife.
“I am Thomas Colton, Mr. Hartley. Shall we sit down?”
Sleepy sprawled on a chair near a window, while Hashknife and Thomas
Colton, former banker, sat down together.
The banker said, “I have a confidential letter from a land syndicate in
Phoenix, saying that they are interested in buying cattle ranches in the
Dancing Devil range, as an investment, and asking about prices. Today I
received this telegram, which I will show you.”
The telegram was sent to the banker, and signed James Morison. It read:
ADVISE YOU THAT A MR. HARTLEY IS AUTHORIZED TO CONTACT RANCH
OWNERS AND CONSULT THEM ON PRICES.
Hashknife read the telegram and handed it back to Colton, who said
quietly, “The bank holds paper against nearly every ranch down
here--rather big paper, I might say, and--”
“I understand that,” interrupted Hashknife, “but mortgages have nothin’
to do with my job. I merely ask prices.”
“And I might say,” continued the banker, “that few, if any, can meet
their mortgages. Confidentially, Mr. Hartley, the ranches of this valley
are in bad shape. I mean, financially, of course.”
“Nothin’ wrong with the ranches?” queried Hashknife. “This looks like a
good range.”
“Oh, it is, indeed! That is one reason that the bank was generous. Have
you made any inquiries, Mr. Hartley?”
“I didn’t want to rush ’em,” said Hashknife. “Why?”
“Well, I--no reason at all, except that I--well, I might be able to get
a better price than you could--knowing conditions.”
Hashknife smiled as he looked at Colton. “Maybe yuh don’t think I’m the
right man to buy cattle ranches,” he suggested.
“No, no, I didn’t mean that! After all, the Cattlemen’s Association
wouldn’t recommend a--well, a man who wasn’t capable.”
“Thank yuh,” said Hashknife dryly. “You go ahead, Mr. Colton. Maybe you
can do better than I could. Anyway, it’s worth tryin’.”
“Well, thank you, Mr. Hartley. I’ll see what I can do, and then we can
compare notes. I’ll see you again--and thank you. It might be well to
not mention our little talk to anyone?”
“I’ll keep still,” agreed Hashknife.
Sleepy was curious, and came over as soon as Colton left. Hashknife told
him the conversation, and Sleepy said, “What’s he tryin’ to do--beat us
out of our jobs?”
“Even a banker can make a mistake, pardner,” smiled Hashknife.,
“He’s shore mistaken if he thinks he can take our jobs over,” declared
Sleepy. “I like to draw money for loafin’.”
* * * * *
A double inquest was held next forenoon in Tomahawk Flats, and it seemed
as though everybody in Dancing Devil Valley came to listen. Because they
had been present at the shooting of Oren Blakely, both Hashknife and
Sleepy were called to the stand to testify. Both Aunt Judy and Uncle
Andy were there, and with them sat Ed Frawley and his daughter, Nell.
Huddled together were Pete Morales and his wife, listening closely, but
not understanding much of what was said. Frenchy Arnett was there, still
half-drunk. Sam Hack and his one man, Gus Staley, were there, and Uncle
Andy introduced Hashknife and Sleepy to Buck Nolan, who owned the Bar N.
There was no one to testify in the murder of Chiquita Morales. They put
Pete Morales on the stand, but Pete either didn’t understand, or had
nothing to tell them. The jury in both cases brought in the only
possible verdict--killed by a party or parties unknown.
Hashknife and Sleepy met the Davidsons on the street after the inquest,
and were introduced to Nell Frawley and her father. Nell was a pretty,
brunette, tall and willowy, but very sad over the plight of Johnny
Davidson. Aunt Judy said, “Ed, you and Nell are comin’ out to have
supper with us, and I’m askin’ Hashknife and Sleepy to come out with
us.”
“What are we waitin’ for?” asked Sleepy quickly.
“But, Aunt Judy, we didn’t intend--” began Ed Frawley.
“Don’t lie to me, Ed Frawley,” she said. “I saw that
hunger-for-sour-milk-biscuits in your eye, when I mentioned supper.”
“Well, I--uh--shore,” agreed Frawley, while Sleepy remarked:
“Speakin’ about love--I ain’t et a sour-milk biscuit since ol’ Settin’
Bull got up and leaned against a tree.”
“As Sleepy said,” remarked Uncle Andy, “what are we waitin’ for, folks?”
“It isn’t noon yet,” said Ed Frawley.
“Don’t you folks eat at noon?” asked Sleepy soberly.
“Let’s go out to the ranch,” said Aunt Judy. “I’ve got to fill him up,
before he starves on our hands.”
The ranch-house and buildings at the AD were well-kept, the grounds
clean. Uncle Andy admitted to Hashknife that Aunt Judy was responsible
for the appearance of the place.
They met Ted Evans and Eddie Connors, the two cowpokes.
“I’ve allus wanted to see what you looked like, Hartley,” remarked
Connors.
“Wanted to see what I looked like?” queried Hashknife.
“Yeah, that’s right. I heard about you up on the Wind River, and then I
heard more about yuh in Colorado, and the last feller to speak about yuh
was from the Thunder River country.”
“I didn’t know I was worth talkin’ about,” said Hashknife.
“Well, I’m tellin’ yuh,” grinned Connors. “If yo’re half as good as the
lies I’ve heard--yo’re a ring-tailed wonder.”
“I’m not, Connors,” assured Hashknife.
“Men will lie, yuh know.”
“Then I shore ran into several, Hartley--and they all lied about the
same things.” “What’s this all about?” demanded Aunt Judy.
“Somebody tryin’ to ruin my reputation, Aunt Judy.”
“Ruin it!” exclaimed Connors. “Lemme tell yuh what--”
“Don’t repeat it--there’s ladies present,” interrupted Hashknife, and
went into the house with the others.
* * * * *
Nell volunteered to help Aunt Judy in the kitchen, and two ranch owners
sat down with Hashknife and Sleepy in the main room. There was plenty of
food for conversation, but no one seemed inclined to start it, until Ed
Frawley, his pipe drawing well, said, “Andy, have you talked with Tom
Colton?”
“Not for a couple of days, Ed.”
“I talked with him this mornin’. It seems that he’s representin’ a
land-buying syndicate, and they’d like to buy the Rafter F--if they can
get it cheap enough.”
“Yea-a-ah? The buzzards are already wingin’ in, eh?”
“That’s what I told him.”
“I can see his angle,” said Uncle Andy. “We owe money to the bank, which
don’t exist now. Him bein’ the owner of the bank, wants his money out of
the deal.”
“And we can’t pay him,” said Frawley flatly. “If we get any kind of a
decent offer, we’ll have to sell.”
Uncle Andy turned to Hashknife, “Sorry to talk about somethin’ you don’t
know about,” he said. “I’ll tell yuh how I’m fixed. I owe the bank
twelve thousand dollars. Not long ago I sold a lot of beef, and I put
twenty-eight thousand dollars on deposit. I wanted to pay off that
mortgage right now, but Colton said-- Oh, I don’t understand bankin’,
Hashknife. Somethin’ about havin’ to pay a lot of interest and a bonus
if I took it up now; so I let it lay. Well, the twenty-eight thousand
dollars is gone--and I can’t pay the mortgage.”
“I’m in the same boat,” said Frawley. “My mortgage was due two days
after the robbery. I owed Colton ten thousand, and I had--well, I had
enough in there to pay it off and not mind.”
“Tough deal,” murmured Hashknife. “Just how was this robbery pulled
off?”
“I can tell yuh what Weed said,” replied Uncle Andy. “Weed is a
bachelor, livin’ alone. Been here years. He said he went to bed, but he
don’t know what time--maybe nine o’clock, and went to sleep. He don’t
know what time he woke up, but the lamp was lighted and three masked men
was around him. They told him they wanted the key to the bank and the
combination of the vault.
“One of them told him that he’d either do what they want, or they’d kill
him, take the keys to the bank and bust it with dynamite. They got the
keys and the combination, tied Weed up tight, and pulled out. They had
all night to do the job--and they shore done a complete job.”
“And he saw that turquoise ring, eh?” said Hashknife.
And Davidson nodded slowly. “He says he saw it plain.”
“Weed is honest, eh?”
“Honest as a dollar,” sighed Uncle Andy. “I’ve talked with him several
times, and he’s just about sick. Weed is pretty old, and he ain’t got
any job. Everythin’ he owned was in the bank, too.”
“I told him,” said Frawley quietly, “that if things got too tough he
could come out and live with us.”
“I told him the same thing,” said Uncle Andy, “and so did Buck Nolan.
Buck didn’t owe the bank anythin’, but he lost every dollar he had in
there.”
“Seems like we’re askin’ Weed to join us in the poor-house,” said
Frawley dryly. “I know I can’t keep goin’. I’ve got a couple good
cowpokes out at my place, but I can’t afford to keep ’em more’n a couple
weeks longer.”
“This looks like a mighty good range,” remarked Sleepy.
“There ain’t any better,” declared Uncle Andy warmly.
“Maybe they’ll offer yuh a _good_ price.”
“Why should they?” asked Frawley. “Colton didn’t suggest any price. He
said they’d naturally buy as cheap as possible, and he said for me to
figure out my lowest price. He’ll prob’ly make you the same proposition,
Andy.”
Uncle Andy stared thoughtfully at the carpet for several moments, before
he said quietly:
“We’ve been here a long time, Ed. It ain’t just like sellin’ a piece of
property--it’s home. Yuh can’t tear up roots that have gone as deep as
ours, my friend. We ain’t young men--me and you. Ed, I just can’t sell
the AD.”
“I feel the same, Andy,” replied Frawley.
“Will Nolan have to sell, too?” asked Hashknife.
“I dunno, Hashknife,” replied Uncle Andy. “It hit him hard, but he don’t
owe the bank anythin’.”
“What about Sam Hack?”
“I don’t believe he had much in the bank. Yuh see, he’s only had the
Circle H a little over a year. He bought out the NK from a feller named
Kinney. The bank had to foreclose a mortgage on the NK, and I reckon
Hack made a good deal for the spread. He’s buildin’ it up.”
“How long,” asked Hashknife, “has Colton owned the bank?”
“A little over two years,” replied Frawley. “Weed worked for the bank
for at least twenty years Harry Colton was in college when his father
bought the bank, and has only been here about a year. He’s no good.
Drinks like a fish, and gambles like a fool. He had the gall to want
Nell to marry him.”
“That,” declared Sleepy soberly, “don’t take much gall.”
“You know what I mean, Stevens,” laughed Frawley.
* * * * *